


Unpredictability in the London D.I.

by annagarny



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-22
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 08:47:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annagarny/pseuds/annagarny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade's divorce is almost final, then he runs into an old friend. Of course, it has to be the day after he's sustained an injury that renders him unable to speak...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"So, when is the divorce final?" Sherlock asked, one eyebrow raised.

Greg Lestrade just sighed, resigned, and flipped open his Moleskine, scribbled the date that the judge had given him and tore the page out, handing it to the lanky 'consulting detective' before stepping past him, nodding at the uniformed officer holding the Crime Scene tape up and approached the car their current body had been found in.

"And the laryngitis?" Sherlock asked, even as his blonde companion kicked him in the ankle.

Lestrade sighed again, glad he'd kept the notebook open and scribbled another note.

"Oh." Sherlock read the note over Greg's shoulder and his eyes widened. "Well. Um. Shall I tell you who did it?"

Lestrade didn't even raise his eyebrow, just nodded wearily and flipped the page, preparing to take notes as Sherlock circled the vehicle, coat sweeping out behind him like he was an oversized bat.

At that mental image, Greg almost laughed, but immediately regretted it, a half-choking noise tore itself from his throat and even Sherlock stopped in his rambling, alarmed.

John Watson immediately went into 'Dr Watson' mode and approached their favourite DI, pressing the back of his hand to Greg's forehead even as Lestrade tried to swat him away.

"You know, Detective, you really shouldn't be out and about when you can't talk."

Greg just scribbled 'want to be here' and flipped the book for John to read. He was writing again even as John began to lecture him about contamination.

'Not contagious, just painful and pitiful, let me work.'

He flipped the page again and let Sherlock continue his rant, until he reached his conclusion with a flourish, pointing to the angle of the rear-view mirror as irrefutable evidence that someone at least as tall as Mr Holmes himself had in fact driven the car into this quarry, and not the barely-five-feet-tall woman who was slumped dead in the drivers' seat with a bullet in her left temple.

"That and she's right handed – the state of her nail polish! – it was her husband, or her lover, the other person who drives this car at least as much as she does."

"How on earth can you know that?" Anderson demanded, almost stomping one blue-bootie'd foot as Sherlock spoke.

"The radio presets, not to mention the ashtray. Then there's the state of the clutch pedal, the man was obviously left-handed, which explains why he shot her from the passenger seat, rather than outside the car. Even you should be able to see that, Anderson!"

Greg cleared his throat, just once, very quietly, in an attempt to dislodge the ticklish feeling around his vocal cords and immediately regretted it, as the action quickly snowballed into a coughing fit that ended with him leaning, jelly-legged, against the nearest police car, struggling to catch his breath.

To his utter and eternal shock, when he raised his watering eyes, it was Holmes who he saw first, something akin to concern in his pale eyes, which vanished as soon as their gazes met. Sherlock straightened up as soon as he ascertained that Greg was not, in fact, dying, and turned to lecture Anderson on 'contaminating' the crime scene with his presence alone.

"Thank-you, Holmes." He ground out, clenching his jaw to avoid another coughing fit. He decided that talking was, indeed, far too painful and scribbled another note on his Moleskine, still almost doubled over, leaning heavily against the reflective tape on the back door of the BMW.

'does that match the description of her husband?' he directed the notebook at John, who in turn addressed Sergeant Donovan with the question.

"Do we have any relatives?"

"Not yet, we've been trying to call her husband but his mobile keeps ringing out."

'who found her?' Greg presented the page directly to Sally, this time, ignoring her recoil as he thrust the notebook at her.

"Workers, at around four AM-"

"An hour after her husband shot her." Sherlock finished, not noticing or ignoring the glare that Sally directed at him, but the slight tightening around his eyes did not escape Lestrade's notice as Sally muttered 'freak' under her breath.

'stop calling him that or you're back in traffic' Greg scrawled, shoving the notebook at the Sergeant a second time, waiting for her to read the note and then look up to meet his eyes. He did his best 'serious' face, which was difficult through streaming, bloodshot eyes, but he still managed to get the message across.

"Yes, sir." She mumbled, before turning and walking over to the other police car, leaning against it and staring at her feet, mutinous. Greg knew that he'd regret it later, but he needed Sherlock actually working right now, because there was still a mystery about this case.

He flipped the page of his book and scrawled out a few more words, before brandishing the page towards the man in the blue scarf.

"Oh. That." Sherlock stared at the words on the page for a few moments before looking down and to his left, scanning the cordoned-off ground around the stationary car with the dead woman behind the steering wheel. There were no other tyre tracks nearby, and the only footprints were from his own distinctive size-eleven hand-made Italian leather shoes, the standard-issue size-seven police boots that had approached the drivers' door, carrying the uniformed officer who had first attended the scene, and the muted imprints from the rest of the scene team, all of whom had worn booties.

The mud on the other side of the car was smooth, undisturbed and frustratingly un-forthcoming with an answer.

"I don't think you know." Greg managed to grind out, before succumbing to another coughing fit, dropping his notebook and pen this time, which fell to his feet open to the last question he'd written.

"I don't know  _yet_." Sherlock corrected him, glaring at the words on the page as if they had insulted his mothers' virtue.

'how did he get away, then?'


	2. Chapter 2

Greg Lestrade left the crime scene with a slight smirk tugging at his lips. He'd have denied it with large block letters in his notebook if anyone had suggested that he was laughing at his 'consulting detective', but he was feeling good.

Even Sherlock was stumped by this one.

There were tyre tracks leading up to the spot where the car had stopped, and the passenger door had been wide open when the car had been found, but aside from the imprints behind the sedan, there were no marks in the mud surrounding it that could not be attributed to a member of the police force or the crime-scene team. From what Lestrade had been able to see (Holmes wasn't the only one with good deductive reasoning skills) there was no obvious explanation as to how the killer had exited the vehicle.

D.I. Lestrade trudged up towards the entrance to the quarry and onto the road beyond – he'd been forced to catch a cab to the crime scene thanks to another round of budget cuts, and not even having a Holmes helping him get a closure rate over 90% was enough to get back his un-marked BMW – in the long run cabs and the Tube were cheaper for inner-city members of Scotland Yard.

Sure, he could have waited until Donovan and Anderson were heading back to the Yard and caught a ride with them, either in the marked car or in the Coroners' van with the body, but truth be told he found Anderson just as exasperating as Sherlock did. Not to mention the fact that he had almost no respect for Sally, honestly, Anderson's wife must have been blind and stupid not to see what was going on.

He considered this as he walked along the road, his feet were moving with purpose but he didn't really have a destination in mind. His own blindness to his wife's affairs non-withstanding, surely those two could do a better job of hiding it. Showing up to crime scenes within minutes of each other, wearing the same deodorant, honestly, it was a rookie mistake. Of course, part of his blindness had been willful; he'd ignored some of the signs, not wanting to admit that there was anything wrong, and then just wanting to prove that infuriating Holmes wrong when he started asking how his wife's latest lover was doing.

In truth, the divorce was a relief. In fifteen days he'd officially be a single man again. He was grateful that the division of assets had been civil, and that his wife's income had been on par with his own. It was going to be touch-and-go for a few months, having bought out her share of the flat in Mortimer St (literally around the corner from flat 221b that Holmes and Watson shared) but it was worth it. He was a stone's throw from the Tube station at Oxford Circus, it was a leisurely walk to Regent's and Hyde Park, and simply put, he liked it there.

Without noticing what he was doing, he reached for his left ring finger and started slightly when he realized that his wedding ring was missing. He'd taken it off a month earlier, when the degree nisi had been issued, and he had every intention of returning to court to apply for the decree absolute the very day that the six-week waiting period was up. The process had taken eight long, grueling months, and he was ready to finish the entire thing off, scrape together however much cash he could find and drink far more scotch than was sensible once he had that piece of paper in his possession.

After about ten minutes of determinedly walking without a destination in mind, he spotted a familiar place, an Indian restaurant that he'd last been to when he was in his twenties. Looking around, he recognized the neighbourhood. He was on Spencer St, not too far from City University, where he'd completed his degree in Criminology and Sociology before joining Scotland Yard. Even though he'd barely moved two miles west, he hadn't been back to this part of London in years.

A sudden wave of nostalgia took him by surprise, he'd had friends here, good friends. He hadn't been alone in becoming a bobby after he'd finished his degree, more than a few of the other D.I.'s around the Yard had graduated with him, but he alone had gone into the murder team.

"Greg? Greg Lestrade!"

He spun on his heel, half-recognising the voice, and caught a brief glimpse of a mop of black curls before he was caught in a hug so fierce he nearly fell over.

"Oof!" The exclamation forced out of him by the girl who was now squeezing his ribs led almost immediately to another coughing fit. The girl stepped back as he doubled over, a concerned hand on his shoulder, and met his gaze when he finally straightened up.

"Olivia?" he ground out, before coughing again, burying his face in the crook of his elbow and trying not to breathe too deeply, it was aggravating the coughing and making everything worse.

"Yes, Greg, it's me. What are you doing in this part of London? Wait, don't try to talk." She reached into the handbag she was toting and extracted a notebook with a pen stuck into its' spiral and pushed them into his hands.

'what are you doing in LDN?' he scribbled, straightening up and gripping the notebook with one hand, extracting a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his jacket and wiping his eyes with it as the girl laughed and spoke to him.

"Greg, I told you at Christmas that I was moving to London!"

He just raised an eyebrow at her and she kept talking.

"Greg, last Christmas, at my mum's place. Your wife had just left you and so you came to the Orphan's Christmas, we spent half the evening sitting at the bottom of the stairs talking about my plans for this year – you wrote me the recommendation that got me my research position here at City."

He nodded, the memory returning, tinged with brandy and too much good food at the hands of Olivia's mother, Emmeline Douglas. After spending a rather depressing Christmas Eve on his own in the flat, his older sister had taken pity and called her friend Emmeline, in Reading, and told her of Greg's situation. He'd volunteered to be on duty over Christmas, so he really couldn't go too far afield (certainly not all the way to Birmingham to see his own family) but Reading was close enough that he could at least have Christmas with some company other than a moderately priced bottle of single malt, and still get back into the city if someone was killed.

He'd jumped at the chance to be somewhere other than Mortimer St and had even hired a car to get out to Emmeline's house that evening. It was only once he arrived that he'd discovered he wasn't expected until the following morning. Thankfully Emmeline was the picture of a perfect host, she didn't send the D.I. home by himself, rather made him up a bed on the couch and told her daughter to keep him entertained while she ducked out.

Before the Orphans' Christmas, the last time Greg Lestrade had seen Olivia Douglas had been at her high school graduation, ten years previous. He'd gone to visit his sister and been taken to the ceremony for her best friends' daughter, a girl he'd known since she and her mother had moved in next-door to his older sister. He'd even managed to scrape together sixty quid to stick in a card for her, and had been given an enthusiastic hug for his trouble.

At the Orphans' Christmas, Olivia had told him about her work, in the intervening years she'd been to university and completed the same degree as his, but instead of going into front-line law enforcement she'd stayed behind the scenes, happy to work in a laboratory as an analyst. They'd discussed their work and even discovered a couple of places where their fields of application overlapped. She'd mentioned being sick of Reading and Greg had told her of an opening he'd caught wind of, a research position at his alma mater. He offered to write her a letter of recommendation without hesitation, but in the months following his own life had been so tumultuous that he'd never been able to follow up on Olivia's application.

So, of course, the day he could not physically talk, he almost literally ran into her in the street.

'you got it?' he scribbled on the notebook, holding it out.

"Of course, you git. Why else would I be on Spencer Street at four thirty in the afternoon?"

He rolled his eyes at her and she asked the next, obvious question.

"What on earth happened that you can't talk, Greg?"

He dug into his pocket, depositing his now-damp handkerchief and extracting his Moleskine, flipping it open to where his pen was still lodged, and then leafing back a couple of pages until he came to the scrawl he'd shown Sherlock not half an hour earlier.

'homicide suspect elbowed me in the throat'

Olivia's eyes widened and she let out a short giggle. Greg's head snapped up and his eyebrows drew together, offended.

"Oh, no! I'm just… glad that I decided to go into lab-work rather than the real world, as my mother puts it. Far too dangerous for a delicate thing like me."

Greg once again rolled his eyes. It was the only method of communication that didn't hurt, or make him regret his sorry penmanship. Olivia was far from delicate – she'd been an RAF Reservist during her stint at university and was still a tall, strong young woman.

"Fine, fine. I know I'm not delicate. Want to get a cup of coffee?" she asked, gesturing towards the café next-door to the Indian restaurant that Greg had been reminiscing about when she had assaulted him. He nodded, thinking that a strong, hot latte might even be enough to get his voice to co-operate for a few minutes.


	3. Chapter 3

It hadn't taken long for Greg to realize that the coffee wasn't going to help enough, and they'd resorted to him typing his replies on his mobile phone after Olivia failed to decipher three attempts at 'Sherlock Holmes' in a row.

Surprisingly, they managed to have a good, if stilted, conversation. Greg got caught up on what his sister was doing (Olivia's mother did, after all, still live next door to her) and how Olivia herself was faring in big, bad London after living most of her life in Reading. She was in a flat-share with three other girls, trying to save enough money to get her own place. She'd actually managed to save a decent amount of money, but her current living arrangements were rapidly becoming less than viable, one of the girls wanted to move her boyfriend into the flat, and since Olivia shared a bedroom with her, some not-so-subtle hints were being made.

'lease?'

He was lucky that Olivia was not only perceptive, but an effusive talker.

"Up in two months. Hopefully I can find a studio for a decent price by then, or another share. There's usually a few students looking to do shares, but I'm moving at the wrong time of year… in this part of London the good places are all taken by October, and I can't commit any earlier than the last week in September without draining my savings."

'sucks. I can ask around if you want.'

"You might know someone who has a flat-share around here?"

He nodded, thinking of Molly Hooper, the poor girl at the St Bart's morgue who Sherlock manipulated mercilessly into 'helping' him with his experiments. She was a couple of years older than Olivia, but she might know a few people who were on the lookout for flat-mates.

"It's been great to see you, Greg." He grinned as she smiled at him, feeling ridiculously happy, and at the same time, feeling a blush rising up his throat. He was really too old to be feeling so chuffed that a pretty girl was smiling at him… he was a grey, almost-divorced detective whose closest friend was probably, at this point in time, John Watson.

"Here." Before he knew what was happening, Olivia had taken his mobile out of his hands and spun it around. She tapped at the keys with speed and certainty, before handing it back to him, her own name highlighted on his contacts list.

"Send me a text next time you're in this part of London, we can have lunch."

Again with the stupid grin, then, another stupid action.

"Of course, Liv." He croaked, and then felt himself blush properly – his voice was rough and it hurt to talk, but he was still smiling. Honestly, it was the best conversation he'd had in weeks, and he'd barely actually spoken.

'maybe I can actually talk next time' he typed, turning the screen towards her with a flourish.

"How long did your doctor say that your voice would be out of commission? A week?"

He nodded.

"Okay, let's make a date. Next-door, next Friday, seven PM?"

Before he even considered the implications, Greg was nodding his assent. That gave him eight days for his throat to recover, meaning that he'd actually be able to contribute to the conversation the next time he saw her.

Unable to resist, he composed a text and, rather than showing it to her, hit the 'send' button. A second later, a chime sounded in Olivia's pocket and, seeing the look on Greg's face, she pulled her mobile out to read the message.

'looking forward to it'


	4. Chapter 4

"Who on Earth did you see last night?" Sherlock demanded not three seconds after he'd entered Lestrade's office the following morning.

Again, rolling his eyes was the best response Greg could come up with. Luckily, Sherlock rarely required the subjects of his deductions to actually acknowledge his brilliance, especially since John did it often enough to soothe the ego of the savage beast.

"What are you on about, Sherlock?" John asked, following his lanky companion into the office and sitting down opposite 'their' Detective Inspector, looking between them as Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Lestrade.

"He met someone, last night. A woman. He's got a date with her, not tonight, probably next week sometime… when his voice is recovered. Before his divorce is finalized."

John then filled in the blank space with the exact same question Greg would have asked, were his larynx capable.

"What are you on about?"

"Oh, come on, it's obvious."

"Sherlock…" there was a note of warning in the blonde doctor's voice and Lestrade watched, interested, to see how the taller man would respond.

Like a chastised puppy, apparently, hanging his head for a moment before gesturing at Greg.

"He ironed his shirt this morning. He hasn't ironed his shirts in almost three months, well, any more than the cuffs and collar, anyway. That and he actually used a razor to shave today, look at his sideburns. Like the after-shave, by the way – did she compliment you on it when you wore it last?"

He hadn't expected anything less from a man like Sherlock, but Greg still narrowed his eyes for a moment before nodding, acknowledging that Holmes was right.

"You really did meet someone last night?" John asked, and Greg tilted his head to one side before Sherlock interrupted.

"Didn't meet her, ran into her. He's known her a while, at least a couple of years. She's young, too."

Greg began to wonder why he needed a voice in the first place, apparently the placement of his sunglasses on the side of his desk was enough for Sherlock to tell someone his life story.

And again, he had to nod at John, agreeing with what Holmes had deduced but scribbled the note on his jotter, nonetheless.

'not a date, catching up with an old friend'

"Not in those jeans." Sherlock scoffed.

And again, he huffed when John and Greg looked at him, blank and accusing respectively.

"You haven't worn those jeans since six months before your wife left you. The only reason you're wearing them today was to make sure they still fit so that you can wear them on your date, which means that the girl in question has to be… good god, robbing the cradle, much, Lestrade?"

That was the last straw. No matter what his doctor said, Gregory Lestrade would not stand silent against that kind of insult.

"She's not a teenager!" he croaked, indignant, but Sherlock dismissed the comment with a wave of one long-fingered hand.

"Oh, who cares about your love life, anyway. I've figured out how the shooter left the car without leaving any tracks."

That got Greg's attention and firmly squashed the bubble of rage that had been expanding in his chest at the accusations Sherlock had been throwing around the office. He just hoped that it was enough of a distraction for John Watson – the man looked like he wanted to question him rather more closely than Greg would be comfortable with.

He didn't even need to ask, just cocked his head to one side and raised his eyebrows, waiting for Sherlock to elaborate.

Holmes didn't disappoint, he reached across the desk and tore the pen out of Greg's hand, drawing a quick diagram of the quarry where they'd found the car, including the streets around it, on the large blotter in the centre of Greg's desk, scribbling over notes and appointments. Greg hoped nothing important was getting permanently defaced.

"She was shot up here." He pointed to a spot at the top of the quarry, near the entrance. "And then the hand-brake was disengaged so that the car would roll down the hill – the killer thought it would go straight into the side of the slag-heap and make it look like a crash killed her, but the car was too light and came to a stop in the middle of the place instead… but by then the killer had left the scene, he didn't want to be caught nearby if someone heard the crash. That's why there were no footprints next to the passenger door."

And, much as he hated to admit it, Greg Lestrade's eyes widened in appreciation of Sherlock Holmes' brilliance.

He turned to his computer and composed an e-mail to his team, outlining Sherlock's theory and demanding a thorough re-examination of the crime scene, including checking the mud at the top of the hill for the still-missing bullet casing.

"Hope you're right." He told his 'consulting detective', followed by an impressive bout of coughing.

"I'm always right." Sherlock told him, arrogance personified. "I also know that your wife isn't going to react nearly as badly as your sister will if she finds out about this girl you're seeing next week."

Greg opened his mouth to object, but all that came out was a squeak. He went to draw a breath to actually speak his objection, but Sherlock grinned at him.

"You think I'd tell them? That would just ruin all my fun. I want to meet her, first. She must be something impressive to have you getting back into your Armani."

Thankfully, the doctor and the detective left the office before the blush had crept any higher than the edge of his collar. Not that Sherlock hadn't seen it already.


	5. Chapter 5

His voice recovered relatively quickly, considering how many times he had to bite the inside of his cheek, lower lip, or the knuckles of his left hand, to stop himself from shouting at someone. Be that someone Anderson, Holmes or a suspect fleeing a scene, after almost a week of near-silence, he asked John to take a look in his throat and see how his recovery was progressing.

Somehow, without entirely meaning to, John Watson had become his GP. Perhaps it was because John was usually on hand when Lestrade was injured, or that they saw each other often enough (and Sherlock diagnosed any ailments before proper symptoms has manifested) that it was easier to ask John than waste time driving to a doctors' office and sitting in a room full of other sick people in order to see his 'regular' physician.

"You've been drinking the tea?" John asked, the consummate professional, his thumbs gently pressing either side of Greg's Adams' apple, careful not to apply too much pressure to the still tender bruises.

Greg nodded.

"And I've seen you chewing on everything you can reach in order to stop yourself from yelling. Open."

He pressed Greg's tongue out of the way and shone a penlight down his throat, eyes narrowed.

"Looks much better, the restraint seems to have worked."

Greg raised an eyebrow in question. In just five days, his eyebrows had become quite conversational, and he was certain that he had never been able to move them quite as expressively, before this whole ordeal.

"I'd say you can talk again. You'll probably still need plenty of hot drinks, and you won't be able to shout for a few more weeks, but you can definitely talk."

"Thanks, John." Greg croaked, but, to his relief, the words weren't followed by a cough, and his voice almost sounded normal.

"Oh, and don't accept any drinks from Sherlock. He's been muttering about an experiment to do with whatever you're doing on Friday."

"What?"  
"He hacked into your phone."  
"I know that, why do you think I'm keeping it in the front pocket of my jeans, lately?" His voice was raspy, but it was so nice to talk instead of writing, he ignored the twinges at the end of his sentence.

"He wants to know who Liv is."

"I'm going to kill him. Then I'm going to get Anderson to help me cover it up."

"Just so you know, I've told him to leave this alone, but you might as well tell him to stop breathing."

"Should I just tell him and get it over with?"  
"Hell no. It's hilarious seeing him with a problem he can't figure out."

"What's he deduced so far?"

"She's younger than you, not related, you've known her at least a few years and she's pretty."

"He got all that from my text messages?"

"Apparently, those and the shirts you've been wearing all week."

Greg looked down at the shirt he had on, under his favourite black blazer. It was one he'd bought himself, a pale green button-down, and he reflected on his wardrobe choices over the last week – every shirt he'd picked out had been one he'd bought himself, he'd been shoving aside the ones his wife had picked out in favour of the soft, old cotton things that he'd had since his bachelor days.

"He also said that the blue one from Thomas Pink would be best for your date, something about the colour making you look younger."

"How the hell… I've never worn that shirt to work in my career."

"Hey, he knew about my three-piece suit and it's still in storage at my parents' place."

"You own a waistcoat?"  
"You think I'd wear a cummerbund?"

"Good point. Where is Sherlock, by the way."  
"He'll be here any minute – he was tormenting Anderson so I left him to his fun."

"Anderson keeps threatening to put in a formal complaint about him."  
"We both know that would go nowhere."

Greg sighed. "I know, but sometimes I'd like to have  _something_  to hold over his head, get him to co-operate. I can't even stage busts anymore, now that you're living with him I know for sure he's clean."

"I think I'll take that as a compliment." John told him, depositing the tongue depressor into Greg's office bin and turning just as the consulting detective arrived in the doorway.

"Not those jeans, go with the Armani. I suppose he already told you which shirt?" Sherlock didn't bother with pleasantries like 'hello' very often, and he was fortunate that neither Greg nor John really cared much.

"How do you know about that shirt, Holmes?" Greg asked, feeling his voice begin to rasp.

"You've seen me pick a lock before, Lestrade. Make a deduction."

The briefest pause, then-

"Why on earth did you break into my flat?" Greg demanded. Unfortunately, his throat objected to the heightened pitch and volume towards the end of the sentence and he dissolved into a fit of coughing, stepping backwards and slumping into his chair, clutching his stomach and throat, trying to glare at the smug 'consultant' through the tears welling up.

"To see if I could."

"How the hell is it that, until we went up to Baskerville, you didn't know what Greg's first name was, but you know where he lives and have since broken in?" John asked, and Greg was grateful, as the same question was rattling around his own head.

"Well, as you pointed out, I might have known Lestrade for almost six years, but I didn't know much about him. So I remedied that."

"By breaking into his house?"  
"Oh, please. It's a three-pin tumbler lock and he doesn't even have a digital security system, even you could have broken in unnoticed, John."

"You could have asked!"

"Would you have let me in?"  
Greg considered for a moment.

"Yes."

"But you would have been present."

"Yes."

"Exactly. You'd hardly have let me go through your wardrobe while you were at home, so I had to break in."

Greg glanced at John and was somewhat mollified to see that his face had turned approximately the colour of a thundercloud. Apparently the fact that Lestrade couldn't shout didn't matter, John was going to do enough yelling for both of them.


	6. Chapter 6

"So, you're seeing her tonight?" Sherlock asked the following morning, having been escorted from the premises by his blonde blogger after his admittance of breaking-and-entering the day before. He'd returned and announced that every case in the station was dull, before flinging himself rather dramatically into one of the hard seats in Greg's office and posing his question.

It was pointless to argue.

"Yes, Sherlock, I'm seeing her tonight. Any advice?" The last two words were so soaking with sarcasm Lestrade was surprised he didn't taste it, but as per usual, Sherlock ignored the inflection.

"Don't wear too much aftershave – John always smells like the perfume counter at Harrods when he leaves for a date and it's repugnant."

"Hey!" Dr Watson, never far from the subject of his blog, had followed him into the office and caught the last part of that sentence. "I don't do that!"

"Yes, you do. I can tell how desperate you are by how much of that awful stuff you splash around your collar."

John sat in the chair next to Sherlock and glared at him, before turning to face Lestrade.

"I'm sorry about this, Greg, he told me we were going to Battersea Park and we were halfway here before I realized that we were going the wrong way."

"It's okay, John. Why are you here, Sherlock? You solved that last case in less than two days."  
"I can't come and visit?"  
"No. You never come and visit. What do you want?"

Sherlock squirmed in his seat for a few moments, before John answered for him.

"He wants to know who this girl is. He can't figure it out and it's driving him bananas… which means he is subsequently driving  _me_  bananas."

"So, you want to know who Liv is?" Lestrade sat back in his chair and threaded his fingers together behind his head, the odd satisfaction of seeing Sherlock Holmes stumped making him overconfident.

This, of course, made Sherlock grind his teeth and decide to put the smug detective in his place, or at least, attempt to.

"Oh, come on. I already know everything else, what do you care?"  
"Some of us value the illusion of privacy, Sherlock!" John protested, but Lestrade sat forward and shushed him with a gesture.

"Alright, Sherlock. You think you know everything? Tell me what you… observe."

The deep breath that preceded his speech was as familiar to John as the strains of Bach that Sherlock played whenever he was thinking though a particularly difficult problem. He cringed slightly, knowing that the recipient of the tongue-lashing about to be dished out would have one of two responses – incandescent rage or a deep, overwhelming embarrassment. He had a strong suspicion that Lestrade would likely be the former.

"Start from my hair." Greg put in, just in that moment of hesitation Sherlock had before launching into his tirade.

He paused for the slightest moment, his eyes flickering upwards then down Greg's form, before he curled his lip and attacked, locking his eyes to Greg's in challenge.

"New shampoo, you're two shades closer to black than you were a week ago, you didn't outright dye it but you've definitely done something to make yourself look less salt and more pepper. You bought yourself those sunglasses when you were on holiday in Spain last year, without your wife. In fact, not a single piece of clothing on you was selected by the woman you've almost divorced, I bet you had to buy new pants."

"Sherlock!" John's admonishment was ignored by both of the detectives as they stared each other down.

"You ironed your shirt and that dark blue one I told you to wear tonight is hanging on the back of your bathroom door, you pressed it first this morning, there's traces of lint from it on the collar of the one you're wearing that transferred with the iron. You've got a nicer cologne on today than you usually wear, in fact…" Sherlock paused in his deductions and leaned forward to take a deep inhale. "In fact, you're wearing Givenchy. You've never worn that before, ever."

"Fantastic, Holmes. But you still haven't told me a thing about Liv."

"She's younger than you and you know her through your sister. She lives in London but you hadn't seen her until last week because of your divorce. Your wife doesn't know her, or maybe she doesn't like her. Either way, you're going to try and keep up appearances for at least two months before you admit that you're sweet on this precious young thing."

Greg reclined in his seat, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the smug grin Lestrade was giving him.

"You really think I'm going to wait two whole months before I tell Liv that I like her?"

"No, I think you're going to wait two whole months before you go public with it."  
"I'd call an Indian restaurant on Spencer St pretty public, Holmes. And if I see so much as a hair of you while I'm out with her tonight I'll take Mycroft up on his offer."

That threw Sherlock for a moment, until he saw Greg's eyes dart to the picture frame on his desk, the one that had until just before Christmas held a picture of his wife – it now displayed a picture of five-year-old Gregory Lestrade, dressed for nursery school and wearing his fathers' bobby helmet, a wide grin visible from beneath it, even though it was far too big for him.

"He offered to send you baby pictures, didn't he?"

"Even embedded one in the last e-mail. I must say, even at three you did cut a dashing figure in a suit… who'd have guessed that you were so fair as a kid."

"What? Baby pictures?" John's interest in this topic was suddenly more than Sherlock could handle, he let out a strangled kind of moan and leapt from the chair, planting his hands on Lestrade's desk and leaning over so that his face was only inches from Greg's.

"Tell my darling brother that I'll be at Baker St all night tonight, and have no interest in staking out you or your precious Liv."

With that, he whirled around, his great-coat fanning out from his legs most dramatically, and strode out of the office, his jaw set firmly in a line as he cut through the clutches of gossiping police officers between the low cubicles that made up the office space.

"Can I get a copy of that picture?" John asked Greg, leaning forward.

"I tried to send it to you but Mycroft did something to the embedding, I can't even screen-capture the damn thing. You can take a look, though!" He clicked on his e-mail icon and was scrolling towards the picture when-

"JOHN!" the roar came from clear across the bull-pen as Sherlock reached the exit opposite Greg's office and realized that Dr Watson wasn't on his heels.

"Quick!" John gasped, biting his bottom lip and trying not to laugh out loud as Lestrade clicked on the e-mail, bringing up the picture of three-year-old Sherlock Holmes, ash-blonde curls framing a scowling face. If looks could kill then by age three Holmes had mastered dismemberment by glare, and even the pale blue sailor suit and matching hat did nothing to ease the impression of a demon being barely contained.

"JOHN!" Sherlock shouted again, stepping back into the office and catching Watson by the wrist, hauling him away and practically dragging him towards the exit, much to the amusement of the gathered officers.

"Maybe we should get him one of those hats!" Lestrade shouted and was rewarded with a loud guffaw from Watson and a simultaneous growl from Holmes.

Sometimes, having friends in high places was a good thing. Greg made a mental note to thank Mycroft for the blackmail material.


	7. Chapter 7

In spite of the leverage the photo had given him, Greg was still taking precautions that afternoon when he got home and took a shower in preparation for his dinner with Liv. It made him feel better, somehow, to take the Tube home rather than a cab, and to have £80 in cash tucked into the breast pocket of his shirt in addition to his credit cards – even with the threat of baby photos being distributed to most of Scotland Yard, he wouldn't put it past Holmes to try something just to mess with him.

At ten to seven he found himself walking up Spencer Street, hands jammed in the pockets of his jacket and collar turned up against a stiff breeze, and spotted Liv standing outside, wrapped in her own dark purple jacket and glancing up and down the street.

Then, she spotted him. At least, this time, he was able to brace himself before she flung her arms around his neck, kissing him soundly on the cheek and squeezing him until he squeaked in a most un-manly fashion. Upon his release, he realized that his cheeks were burning, he was blushing from his neck to his hairline.

"You've gone all pink, Greg!"

He just nodded, and the blush deepened. He cursed his circulatory system for betraying him even as Liv grinned, running her hand from his elbow to his shoulder and giving him a squeeze.

"Why are you nervous, Greg? Is it anything to do with that colleague of yours who I ran into today?"

"Colleague?" Greg's stomach sank.

"That's what he called himself, said his name was John Watson?"

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah, tall, dark and piercing eyes, almost sat on me in the coffee shop, he was concentrating so hard on his mobile, made me spill my coffee."  
"Did he at least buy you a replacement?"  
"In fact he did, which is the only reason I discovered that he knew you – he said he was looking at crime scene photos for a D.I. Lestrade and that's why he hadn't seen me in the chair he tried to sit in."

"Really." Greg felt his embarrassment melting away before the wall of rage that was building, directed firmly towards the interfering 'consultant'. Damn Sherlock and his semantics – just because Greg had told him not to come anywhere near his date, didn't mean he couldn't approach Olivia beforehand. "What else did you get to talking about?"

"Well, when he mentioned Lestrade I asked if he meant Greg Lestrade, and he seemed a bit surprised that I knew you – asked if I was a relative of some sort."

"I bet he was right concerned."  
"He was actually."

"My god, he's an interfering git. He asked about tonight, did he?"

"Not really, he seemed more interested in making sure that I knew about your separation and the exact status of your divorce, seemed to think that you might not have told me all the gory details."

"He does that, sometimes."  
"What, sticks his nose in?"

"Yeah, that. What else did you talk about?"

"He said something about your shirt, that you'd been agonizing over it all week and he'd helped you pick it out, said I better appreciate the help because it wasn't given lightly."

"Huh."  
"One really odd thing, though."  
"What was that."  
"Well, he introduced himself as John Watson, but we'd been sitting in the coffee shop for about five minutes when another bloke burst in and grabbed him by the elbow, shouting at him, calling him Sherlock and telling him to leave me alone."

"Oh, really. What did he do, then?"  
"Apologised, clapped a hand over the other bloke's mouth and told me that he was a patient who'd gone a bit mental. He shoved him outside and by then the whole café was watching, it was a bit of a scene. He shook my hand and hailed a cab, dragging the other bloke in with him, who was still trying to tell him off for talking to me."

"Bit weird."

"Very weird. I'm not sure how stupid this Sherlock Holmes thinks you are, but apparently his opinion of you is pretty low."  
"What makes you say that?"

"He tried to warn me off, then he made a bit of a show of getting up close and personal, all intense, when he shook my hand. Cheeky bugger took my pulse while he leaned in trying to be all hypnotic. I will admit he's got great cheekbones, though. The poor bloke outside looked like he was ready to throttle the tall one."

"Yeah, we all get a bit like that at times."

Olivia laughed.

"So, it was Holmes? Tall, dark and interfering? If you hadn't warned me about him I could have sworn he was coming onto me. And the blonde bloke, that was the real John Watson, his blogger?"

"Two for two, and don't worry about him coming onto you, he was probably just testing some mad theory."

"I think I'd probably get along better with John, than with Sherlock."  
"I think everyone gets along better with John than with Sherlock."

They were still standing outside the restaurant, Liv was still quite close, one hand on Greg's shoulder and the other on his wrist, just a few inches apart. He still had his hands on her waist from their hug and as the conversation died he seemed to realize this, withdrawing them as if he'd been scalded.

"He's here, isn't he? Watching."  
"Probably. Threatened to tell my sister." Greg was looking at his feet as he spoke, feeling like a kid caught with his hand in the biscuit tin.

"So what? We're both grown-ups, Greg, we can hug, and talk, and have dinner in public. I know all about your divorce, you know I've had a crush on you for years and all Holmes knows for sure is that he's an imposing figure, but if he hadn't figured that out before he met me then he's an idiot."

As she spoke, Liv reached out and caught his hand, threading her fingers through his. He raised an eyebrow at her, barely daring to think that she might actually be saying what he thought she was saying.

"Greg, we've been texing and e-mailing practically hourly all week, and my mum's going to find out that we've reconnected, eventually. You're not the type to play games, so why not sooner rather than later?"

"Because I value having personal possession of all my appendages?" he offered, half-joking.

"Mum likes you, Greg, but she thinks you're too young for her. She is almost fifty, you know."

"Oh, fifty isn't that old."  
"Well, considering that you're almost a decade away from it, I hardly think you're an authority on the subject."

He glanced down at their entwined fingers for a moment before looking directly into Liv's eyes, feeling like a teenager again, completely unsure of himself.

"Just get on with it, or I'll do it for us." She told him, tilting her head to one side and smiling, biting her lower lip just as his gaze flickered down to her mouth.

"Get on with it?" he asked, taking half a step forward and putting himself right into her personal space, testing the waters.

"I wanted to do this at Christmas, the minute you told me you were leaving your wife, but no amount of brandy would stop you from being all noble and well-behaved. Eight months is a long time, don't make me wait any longer."

He could feel her breath on his cheek as she murmured in his ear and before he'd actually decided on anything, his mouth had moved of its' own accord, his lips caught hers and he pressed into her, his free hand catching at the nape of her neck as the kiss deepened.

Almost a full minute passed before they drew apart and Greg immediately broke into a broad grin, before the reality of what he'd done came crashing down.

He swore, just once, before pressing his forehead into the shoulder of Liv's jacket, allowing the thick material to muffle the rest of his curses and ignoring the large black button that was creating an indent on his forehead.

Oh, well, hopefully John could help him blackmail Sherlock into giving him a copy of the photographs he'd no doubt taken, it would be nice to have a permanent reminder of their first kiss.


End file.
